


Seen and Unseen

by ukiyo91



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes photos of the places they visit on his phone. It's nothing big, till it kind of is.  </p><p>Set during a nebulous pre-season 4 time period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seen and Unseen

It starts out as nothing, really. The phone is shiny and new, with a million different apps that Sam enjoys pointing out. Like he’d ever need to adjust his stock portfolio. But he likes the camera--makes it easier to send Bobby pictures of symbols and markings they’d find at different hunts.

And every so often Dean likes to take pictures of pie. Only the really good ones, though; the kind that are saturated with color cause the berries are freshly picked, and the crust is that perfect hue of golden-brown. And then he likes to takes pictures of the diners they're served in, just as a reminder. And when he can't sleep, stuck in a smelly motel room with Sam tossing and turning and Dean powerless to do anything about it, he likes to flip through his phone and look at those pictures. It's the simple things, he knows, that can keep someone going with all the shit they have to face. 

And then he starts taking pictures of cool stuff they’d see along the roadside: crazy, warped pieces of metal dotting someone’s lawn, which Sam unhelpfully explains is considered a new kind of art; neat vintage signs advertising long-forgotten attractions in half-disappeared towns; some of the more gothic-looking Victorian mansions they visit to chase out a ghoul or a poltergeist. He likes the ones in Northern California best, the ones built by vagrants who had hit it big in the gold rush and set down their roots in maple and pine. 

It's not anything big. Just something he likes to do when he has a moment. So many of the towns they visit are barely a dot on the map--Dean likes being able to find something cool or unusual or worth preserving, even if it's just a pixelated image on his phone. 

They travel to South Dakota to deal with a kitsune and Dean stops the Impala by the side of the road because the James River is actually really freaking nice-looking in the afternoon sun. Dean ignores Sam’s raised eyebrow as he leans out the window to snap a picture--it reminds him of a memory, maybe when he was 8 or 9, of John taking the boys fishing and Dean getting so excited about catching something he’d fallen into the river and had gotten carried down a ways. John had rushed after him, of course, and had picked him up and wrapped his big coat around him and had brushed the hair off his forehead with his hand and hadn’t yelled, just squeezed him once. Then Sammy had started bawling his little heart out, and John’s attention has shifted to where it was due, but it was a good memory. 

They’re in Eagle Nest, New Mexico after that, posing as ranch hands while they track down an angry Pueblo animal deity. Dean takes some time in the evening, after his shift and before he and Sam have to trawl through a cemetery, to walk along the edge of the lake, bordered on all sides by mountains. It’s a clear, chilly evening, and Dean spots a little shack down a ways. It’s someone’s home, not larger than a garage, but there’s lights on inside and a small vegetable garden in the back and Dean likes the way it looks solid and settled, almost in defiance of the landscape. So he snaps a picture, cause he likes things like that. He likes seeing how people live, and make their home. 

It’s no different a few weeks later when they go deep into Cajun country, no motels in sight, just some ramshackle cottages along the marshlands of the bayou. The air is thick and a bit sour, and the lingering traces of the dead Confederate soldier they’ve just salt-and-burned makes the night air a little uneasy. But he and Sam settle in under a wisteria tree sipping bourbon. Dean likes when they get free booze as a thank you gift. It settles in his stomach, and he feels warm and at ease. Next to him, Sam looks content, or as content as he’s going to ever be, considering what he’s been through. Dean wants to say something, but this night is made for silence, so he sits back and grabs his phone, snapping a picture of the houseboats as they glide down the river, lit by lanterns and fireflies. 

It’s Sam who discovers the album, bored during a seven-hour ride to Indiana. He makes a startled sound, and Dean looks over to see him grinning down at his phone. Sam says that he didn’t know the photos were that good, and Dean snaps something back, a little embarrassed, but kind of pleased. But Sam doesn’t let it go, commenting on all the stupid shit Dean’s got pictures of, making references to the History of Photography he took at Stanford to get his arts requirement out of the way, not that Dean wants to hear anything about that. It’s just crummy photos on his cellphone. He’s not Picasso, or anything. 

A day later, his phone starts beeping, and doesn’t stop. The little pings annoy the crap out of him, especially since he can’t figure out where they’re coming from. They’re not texts, nor emails, and when he yells at Sam to come help, his brother gives him a sheepish grin. 

It’s something called Instagram, which is the stupidest thing Dean’s ever heard of. But apparently, Sam’s created a profile for him, and added all his photos. That’s bad enough, but the worst part is that every Tom, Dick or Harry can now see them, and they write ridiculous things in the comments about ‘capturing the spirit of small-town America’ and ‘a neo-antiquarian’s delight of the lost and forgotten’ and how Dean’s a total hipster, which, what the fuck...

Sam refuses to take down his profile and as the days go by, he gets more comments. There’s maybe about two hundred photos, and it surprises Dean how many he’s taken. But then he starts getting emails about how his pictures have been reposted to blogs, and how people would love to hear his story, and requests for more and the last, last thing Dean needs is any more attention. 

But. 

But, and he’ll never admit this to anyone, least of all Sam, but he kind of digs it. So he keeps taking pictures, of the ghost towns in Nevada they visit and the cool trees they see in Charleston and the tacky mom-and-pop joints in Idaho with the amazing blueberry pie. And he keeps getting comments. And every time they find a new hunt, Dean starts to look forward to the destination, rather than the monster of the week. It makes him look at Sam differently, remembering how he used to frequent the libraries of every town they’d pass through when they were kids, and he’d dig through the donation bins looking for cheep mysteries and yellowed penguin classics. Sam would write the name of the town they’d come from on the inside cover, and Dean never asked why, but he kind of gets it now. The people Sam and Dean meet in these towns will always associate them with the worst moments of their lives, and if they are remembered, it will always be with fear and sadness. Dean knows they ultimately do good, and it’s the life of the hunter to forever be moving and never lingering. But the photos are something just for him. It’s selfish and ultimately useless, but he likes finding something good, something worth remembering about these places, places that will never be the same for them having been there. 

So when he pulls over on Route 23 heading into New England to snap that picture of the perfect view of fall foliage, Sam doesn’t say a word. But that’s okay, because Dean’s twelve hundred followers will.


End file.
